


The Best Medicine

by ArianaFandoms



Category: The Hobbit RPF
Genre: But the reader helps him feel better, F/M, Poor Richard has the flu, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1538738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArianaFandoms/pseuds/ArianaFandoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the following Tumblr prompt:</p><p> </p><p>  <i>I’d love to see a one-shot where the reader is Richard’s live-in girlfriend and he comes down with the flu and he’s unable to do anything, so she ends up taking care of him. They end up (quite foolishly) having sex with the reader on top and at the end of the fic she ends up becoming sick herself XD</i></p><p> </p><p>Fluff and adorable sick!Richard and smut.</p><p>Incidentally, I was sick when I wrote this, lol.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Best Medicine

You come home from a weekend visit with your parents to Richard lying on the sofa, looking cross and miserable, covered in a too-small blanket that only reaches to his calves. He gives you a pitiful look when you walk towards him, and you struggle to suppress a grin.

"When did this happen?" you ask, sitting on the arm of the sofa. He moves his sock-clad feet to make room for you on the end cushion.

"Not long after you left," he replies. His baritone voice has dropped in pitch and sounds horribly congested.

"Richard," you scold him, "you should've called me."

"I didn't want you to worry or feel like you have to come home." He looks so scrunched on the sofa that you allow him to stretch his legs out into your lap. "I'm a grown man, love, not a child."

This time, you can't keep the smile off your face. "Could've fooled me from how petulant you looked when I got home."

"Oh, hush," Richard huffs, and you could swear that he is pouting, too. "You know I have that audition in two days. I have to _not_ sound like _this_ by then." He sniffles.

"Right," you say, standing. "I'll make you the soup that my mum made me when I got sick."

"Can't you just stay here with me?" He looks so pale and feverish that you nearly agree.

"I'll be back," you assure him, bending down to kiss his pallid forehead. It is much warmer against your lips than usual. "Why didn't you get the bigger blanket?"

"I couldn’t find it."

You sigh and open the chest against the far wall, rummaging through it.

"I swear, you men become as helpless as babies when you're ill."

You drape the larger blanket over him, making sure to cover his feet, and he fairly snuggles into it. The sight warms your heart.

"But that's why I've got you,” he says.

"Charmer," you mutter and brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."

The soup needs about an hour to cook, but once you add all the ingredients to the pot, you rejoin Richard in the living room. Sitting on the sofa again, with his head in your lap this time, you tell him about your weekend at your parents’ house and their reactions to the news that you and Richard had moved in together. Your mother barely batted an eyelash, saying that after a year of dating, it was the next logical step. Your father, however, was less keen on it. But he liked Richard, so his objections were short-lived. The pointed look your mother had given him also helped.

"You'd think that at 42, I'd be too old to worry about my girlfriend's father's opinion of me," Richard remarks.

"He doesn't think you're doing anything bad," you laugh. "I think it's just normal dad behavior."

Richard tilts his head back to smile up at you. "Who knows? Maybe soon I'll be acting like that, too."

Your stomach flutters, and you give him a shy smile. The topic of children has come up in the past, but those conversations were general, merely an agreement that at some point, yes, you both wanted them. This time, however, it seems that Richard is suggesting he wants to start a family with _you._

And soon.

"Maybe," you say faintly. You glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. "The soup's ready."

Before Richard can reply, you have already extricated yourself from him and are in the kitchen, ladling the soup into two bowls. You hear rustling from the living room and quickly place the bowls, spoons, and napkins onto a tray, just as Richard is standing. He sits back down when he sees you, the blankets bunching into a heap in his lap.

You eat in silence, your elbows and thighs touching. You can feel the heat of his skin, whether from fever or from something else, even through the layers of his sweatpants and blankets. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch the spoon disappear into his mouth, watch him lick a tiny drop of broth from his bottom lip.

"It's good," he compliments, startling you from your observations.

When had eating soup become so erotic?

"I'll tell Mum," you reply, then mentally kick yourself for the half-brained response. “It’s loaded with vitamins, so it should help you feel better.”

Richards nods in understanding, and, as usual, finishes eating before you do. He waits patiently, watching the telly with moderate interest, periodically clearing his sore throat. Your attention naturally alternates between him and the program. If the slight twitch of his lips is any indication, he notices. But his profile is too lovely to ignore. When he shifts, causing his bare arm to rub against yours, you calmly put down your spoon and shove the blankets off his lap.

"What are you-?" he begins, then goes quiet as you straddle his thighs, your intention clear. "Love, we shouldn't. Not now."

"Are you feeling unwell?"

"Not at the moment," he replies. His hands settle on your hips seemingly by instinct.

You arch a brow. "Are you physically unable?"

He glances down at his lap through the gap between your bodies. "Definitely not."

"Then there's no problem."

You lean in to kiss him, but he stops you. "Yes, there is," he insists. "You might catch my flu."

"Doubtful," you snort. "I hardly ever get sick."

He looks conflicted, so you try something that you hope will convince him.

"If you expect to be a father soon, we really ought to practice making babies."

His pupils dilate, and even before he captures your lips in a searing kiss, you know you've won.

Richard pulls you down into his lap as he mouths at your neck, leaving gentle nips and soothing kisses. That was one of the first things you had learned about him--his fondness for neck-kissing. He’d quickly discovered the spot that made you shiver, and, even a year later, he still has not tired of your reaction against his body.

His lips move lower, to the tops of your breasts. You indulge him for a few seconds, but when he tries to unbutton your blouse, you tilt his chin up to meet your gaze.

"I need you, Richard," you say, grinding your pelvis against his. "I need you _now_."

He groans and pushes up your skirt, trailing his hands up your bare thighs until they reach your core. His fingers find wetness there, even through the thin fabric of your underwear. He hooks a thumb into the waistband on each side and pulls down, letting the garment drop to the floor. Your breath quickens as he strokes your vagina, alternating between teasing touches and dips into your entrance. At the same time, his thumb circles your clit, gently at first, then with increasing pressure and speed when your hips buck. Before your pleasure can reach its peak, you push his hand away and tug down his sweatpants to reveal his erection. The fact that he's not wearing his black boxer briefs merely adds to the eroticism.

You wrap your hand around the base, stroking along the length to the engorged head. Fluid leaks from the tip, and his breath hitches as your thumb circles the glans. While you slowly bring him apart, you kiss him, your tongue swirling sensually against his and mimicking the rhythm of your hand. Richard feels like he's on fire. His skin is hot beneath your hands, and you’re sure that it is only partly because of his fever.

When he cannot take the teasing any longer, he wraps his hand over yours on his cock to position it at your entrance. You stare at each other as you slide down onto him, his groan echoing your moan. He had been cold all day, but now with your body atop his and your tight, slick heat enveloping him, he is finally, deliciously warm.

Richard guides you up with his hands on your hips, then thrusts up as he lowers you. He repeats the motion over and over, relishing the way your lips part to emit sounds that send bolts of desire to his groin.

He pulls you against him, his pace increasing, and your arms wrap around his neck to steady yourself. Breaths mingle as you exchange messy, open-mouthed kisses, your teeth occasionally clacking together from the lack of finesse. Your coupling is desperate, almost frantic now. _Fevered_. You wonder if maybe you hadn't caught his flu after all.

He shifts. His cock spears into that special bundle of nerves, sending heat to pool in your belly. You moan and arch your back and pant with each thrust. Encouraged by your sounds, Richard continues the onslaught with increasing vigor, until finally, gloriously, your body tenses and your head falls back, exposing your neck to Richard's greedy lips. You cry out, your inner walls clenching around him to bring him to his own release. He pulls you down _hard_ , as his hips jerk up erratically, his grunt of completion echoing in your ear.

It is a slow descent from your high. Neither of you moves for many moments, content to remain still in the blissful, post-orgasm silence. Once the haziness clears, however, you cradle the back of his head and place soft kisses on his hair. From the look and feel of it, he hasn’t washed it since you left for your parents’ house four days ago. But as he tightens his arms around you, his breath hot on your neck, the state of his hair is the last thing on your mind.

“Thank you,” he whispers, feeling warm and well and decidedly less cranky than before. "That was the best medicine anyone could have prescribed."

"Well, they do say orgasms are healthy,” you remark.

He looks up at you, his blue eyes glittering with mischief and his lip curling suggestively. "Then perhaps I need another dose in an hour."

"Cheeky bastard," you quip and allow him to bring you with him when he lies down on the couch. You arrange the blankets so that they cover both of you and snuggle into his chest. "As your nurse, I recommend that you take a nap first, though."

"Mmm, a nap sounds good," he murmurs, pulling you closer. "And now that you're back, I may actually be able to sleep." There it is again, that warm, happy feeling in your chest.

Richard kisses your hair, and the last thing you remember before you doze off is his hand lazily stroking your arm.

#

Three days later, _you_ are the one lying on the sofa under a mountain of blankets.

"My poor love," Richard coos, and it is only slightly tinged with amusement. He glances at the temperature on the thermometer and frowns. "It looks like you've caught my flu after all."

You don't say anything, merely cross your arms over your chest and sigh. You know what’s coming before he even says it.

"What was that about you hardly getting sick?"

You roll your eyes. "Sod off," you grumble. He laughs, and you’re tempted to chuck a pillow at him as he walks into the kitchen to make you soup.

Well, there's one perk to being ill, at least. With Richard's follow-up audition not until next week, he can take care of you.


End file.
